


Restart

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7273591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or how it would have been if it was a simulation all along...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“How’s your nap, Harry?”

Harold groaned. The prickling feeling of a needle being pulled out of his arm made him turn his head to the side. Without glasses on, his vision was blurry but he was pretty sure the syringe Root was holding was empty. He closed his eyes again when the start of a headache pounded on his temple.

“I had quite a morbid dream.”

Root placed the glasses back on him. “I know.”

Her hands unrolled the sleeve of his shirt, smoothening as much crease as she could and hoping the warmth of her touch could sooth him as well. She didn’t like using amphetamine to pull him out of the ketamine effect—it reminded her too much of the drug rollercoaster Control had put her through—and from what she had seen on Shaw, the simulation had a way of screwing up reality.

“We’re sorry we have to resort to this.”

He blinked up at her. They were still in the subway car. He was lying on the floor, head propped on what seemed to be Root’s leather jacket. The last thing he remembered doing was giving The Machine the option to choose a voice for Herself. He was going to lock them out—closed the system for good, when a sharp pain hit the side of his neck.

With his free hand, he reached for the spot. Root peeled it away, setting it over his stomach. As if triggered, he gasped and pressed on the left side of his vest. The pain of a gunshot wound lingered on his insides. His hand was shaky when he lifted it up, but it wasn’t covered in red and he sighed.

“How long have I been out?”

“Three hours,” Root said, unplugging the VR headset from The Machine. “But it’s longer in there.”

“It felt like weeks.”

“I like talking more about the simulation, but—“

Root had started to get back to her feet, but Harold reached for her. He sat up; hand grasped her wrist and stopped her movement altogether. By then, he realized that she had been holding a gun and her whole demeanor was tense, but it wasn’t his main concern. He looked at her with wide eyes at first, before a grimace took over his face.

“You died...” His voice had come so low, so pained.

“Someone had to,” she said, shrugging.

“For me to finally act?”

“Yes.” There was a small, easy smile on her lips, which did nothing to assure him. “I told you long ago, Harry, war requires sacrifices. Might as well be me.”

“And John,” he said, choking on his own emotion. “And Miss Shaw wasn’t faring so well either.”

“But you got your happy ending.”

Harold’s expression contorted into anger. “This wasn’t supposed to be the way!”

“It’s okay, Harry. That was just a simulation—“ Root squeezed his hand that was clasping around her wrist like a vice “— _this_ is real.” When he still refused to let go, she added, “I can pinch you if you like.”

“Root...”

There was a hint of warning in his voice, but also relief and sadness and anger and disappointment. The last directed at himself. It shouldn’t have taken a death of a comrade— _a friend_ —for him to act. His friends shouldn’t have died or lived in a way that couldn’t be considered a life from doing the work he himself began, while he got away from his responsibility of creating The Machine and got a happy ending.

Root picked it up without he had to say it aloud; it was one in her long list of talents that he was always amazed with. With one last squeeze, she managed to pry off his hand and went to The Machine. His reunion with Grace in Italy was frozen on the screen before Root closed the simulation. There was a twinge of longing in his gut when the screen turned back to black, but it vanished once he recalled everything he had gone through in that simulation to get to that moment with Grace. He had lost too many people before and if he could help it, he wouldn’t lose more. Not Root, or John, or Sameen, or Fusco, or Elias. Not even Greer. Because every life matters.

“So, what’s it’s gonna be, Harry?” Root asked, turning her attention back to him. “Are we going to end up the most principled corpses in Potter’s Field? Or should I say ‘am I’, at least for a bit, because you know they never really recovered John’s—“

“No,” Harold said with finality. Instead of taking Root’s offered hand, he held onto the edge of the desk to help himself up. His balance was a little off center after being drugged and lying down for hours, but his resolution was firm. “We’re keeping the system open.”

Root smiled, patting his shoulder with her free hand. “As much as I like the direction of your change of heart may take us, we don’t have time to see what’s going to happen if we fight back.”

He regarded her with bewilderment, even more when she walked out of the subway car and began transferring the guns from the safe into it. “Root, what’s going on?” he asked as he ended up bringing some of the weapons into the car.

“Sorry, Harry. Professor Whistler’s taking an early retirement,” she said, rushing in and out of the car in a blur of motion that added more pain to his growing headache. “Your number came up.”

All Harold could do was staring at Root. Everything had moved so fast for him in the simulation and reality seemed to catch on the rushed pace. He hung on the car entryway, the .338 heavy on his arms. Root took the gun and set it on the desk before she led him to sit on one of the seats. He let her; his mind was in a whirlwind of confusion and he felt like he was getting whiplash.

 _How_ was the only word he managed to utter.

“The simulation began with you locking us out of The Machine’s system. Everything that happened before it was real.”

“My visit to the Sognare’s Café?”

Root nodded. “Don’t worry. John had been notified, he’s on his way. But Shaw...” She turned to The Machine—now remained an open system for however long She could survive. Ask any question, get any answer, the world’s secrets laid bare. But Root only had one question in mind. “Can you locate Sameen for me, please?”

The Machine ran through all the feeds She got, but found none. Root couldn’t help but chuckle. Shaw wouldn’t be found if she didn’t want to be found, even with not one, but two ASIs looking for her. But Shaw hadn’t gone alone that day.

“Can you find Bear then?” Root asked again.

In an instant, the screen was filled with surveillance feed from a nearby local park. Of course it would be a park—that was where Shaw had spent most of her time since she came back. The Machine showed Bear sitting in front of a bench and a hooded figure—Shaw—scratching the back of his ear. There happened to be a payphone just a little away from the bench and She took the initiative to make the call there, patching it to Root’s implant as well.

Shaw’s head perked up when she heard the ringing, but she was wary of it. Bear wasn’t, though. After the first ring, he was on his feet. He panted at her, head tilted and tongue lolling out. When she remained unmoved while the ring continued, he tugged her to it. After seconds of assessing her surrounding, she relented and picked up the phone.

Back on the subway, Root grinned. “Hey, sweetie.”

“ _Root?_ ” The surprise was obvious. Shaw had expected The Machine’s cacophony of voices to give her a number—her own, probably. “ _Why are you callin’?_ ”

“We need you back in the subway.”

From the corner of her eyes, Root saw Harold moved. She followed him, worried that he might do something drastic like leaving the subway to keep her and The Machine safe. It would be suicidal. He came back with more guns and she winked at him, all the while trying to ignore the pang from Shaw’s lack of reply. Even after a week, Bear was the only one Shaw dared to be close with.

“Harold’s cover’s blown.”

“ _I’m back a week, his cover’s blown._ ” Shaw scoffed. “ _He thinks I’m the reason his cover’s blown?_ ” she asked, sounding small and unsure.

Root shook her head even though Shaw couldn’t see her. “He knows you’re not.” She sighed. Harold ducked his head when their eyes met through the window. “He slipped up. He went back to the place he and Grace had their first date ten years ago.”

“ _Harold has a weakness._ ”

“We all do,” Root said, looking at the feed. For a second, she was sure she saw Shaw glancing at the direction of the camera. “John’s on his way. You have twelve minutes before you miss the train.”

“ _Wait, Root, is that all? What about Fusco?_ ”

“Lionel won’t be coming with us. Samaritan doesn't know that he knows.”

“ _Then I’m stayin’ here. I’ll draw Samaritan’s attention—_ “

“I’m not leaving you again!” The sudden raise of tone jolted Harold up, but Root couldn’t care less. She also couldn’t care less about how similar everything was playing out with the simulation. The Machine was really good at predicting them. “We need you— _I_ need you. Besides, I don’t think Harold or the big lug can take out my cochlear implant in a moving subway car.”

“ _You just had to put it that way, didn’t you?_ ”

“Eleven minutes, tick-tock.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next six minutes was spent in a blur of movement. Harold followed whatever instruction Root gave him with minimum questioning. He had changed the subway power source back to the third line while she lined up the tunnel with explosives. He thought she was only teasing Shaw about missing the train when he overheard their conversation earlier, he should have known better.

However, if Root insisted on moving on such impossible pace, he couldn’t help her anymore. His back was already killing him. He was working on activating the subway system while she went to fetch a few necessary things from her trunk of treasure, as she had dubbed it. The car was brimming with power and ready to take off when she came back, arm full with oxygen tank and her usual messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

He watched her setting the bag on the seat, the tank on the floor beside it, and took out the small USB from her pocket. He reined back the question that almost spilled from his tongue. She stared at him with an expectant smile and the playful twinkle in her eyes that roused trepidation in him. He took hesitant steps forward, joining her in front of The Machine.

“May I hardcode a little something extra into Her system, Harry?”

Harold straightened up, eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth, ready to scold her for doing that. _There are rules, Miss Groves. Rules I did not arrive at_ —his mind caught up on the last moment and reeled him back. Root hadn’t done anything _yet_. She was asking his permission to do so, just as she said she would during their dance in the Turner wedding.

This wasn’t the simulation.

“What do you have in mind?” he asked, dreading it to be the ability for The Machine to act but only if he asked Her to. He didn’t want that—he didn’t want the events that led him to do that. He hovered close while Root plugged in the USB. A new window popped up. Soon it was obvious to him of what she was adding to The Machine and it was nothing like he had assumed. “You infect it with Trojan Horse _and_ polymorphic virus?” His voice rose with concern, brows knitted together. “It’ll be more vulnerable!”

“Think of it as some sort of vaccine.”

The screens showed nothing unusual, even though the Trojan Horse and virus were spreading everywhere. It would reach every RAID servers of Hers, even the cloned version of Her she had sneaked in the Plokštīnė missile base’s system in Žemitija National Park during her recent trip with Vasily. The new facility would also be sealed from now on.

“She’ll get a little fever. Nothing a big girl can’t handle.”

“But The Machine has everything it needs to fight back.”

“Except the will to.” She glanced at him as she took back the USB. “Do you know why it’s never about winning and only surviving?”

Harold remained quiet. He had a guess, one that he didn’t like.

“You taught Her well, Harry. Too well. You saw Her as somewhere in the middle, not a life but not a machine either. But She recognizes Samaritan as a life.” Root let out a humorless chuckle. The Machine had taken after him in almost every aspect. They never had the chance to win the war because there was never a will to fight in the first place. “She won’t do anything to hurt it, because you taught Her to value every life.” She gave an affectionate pat to the edge of one screen. The Machine hadn’t said anything, but She was listening. She always did. “Now, with this, She has an enhanced immune system. She still won’t fight, but she’ll react better. When Samaritan pushes, She will push back.”

He gave her a solemn nod, still not liking what she did to The Machine. It was a matter of principle, one that he had clutched on so tight since he started building The Machine. It was hard to let go, but it was harder to see his friends die because of his stubbornness.

From the corner of his eyes, he noticed the glint of a gun.

For a fleeting moment, he was transferred back to a speeding car. _Root was driving and they saw a sniper on the second floor of a building they were going to pass. Root’s cry of_ no _and the loud noise of her gun firing left his ears ringing. The car took a sharp swerved to the right. The bullet that was intended for him had missed. It hit Root instead. She gasped for breath, bleeding all over the driver seat. She died. The Machine used her voi—_

He barreled forward before he could think about it. His whole weight hit Root and they tumbled down together to the subway car’s unforgiving floor. Her body took most of the impact and there would be bruises blooming on her back. He hissed, eyes screwing shut together. There was a sharp pain on the side of his right arm.

Even with Harold still leaning on her, Root was quick on shooting down the assailant. She saw the red on his ripped shirt. “Harold, are you okay?” She helped propping him up with hands on his shoulders.

It wasn’t a through-and-through, but it still burned all the same. The bullet needed to be dug out before he contracted sepsis. It also needed stitches. The pain blinded his mind for a moment. Instead of worrying about the injury, he thought about how Gianni's offer of Kevlar-weaved fabrics didn’t sound so ridiculous anymore. It was good investment. He was going to make an appointment if they got out alive.

Physical pain and fashion plan aside, his lips stretched into a thin smile when Root murmured something that was a cross of relief and disapproval after checking on his injury. He could move his arm and the bleeding was minimum. It hurt like hell, but the bullet hadn’t shattered his humerus or nicked a major blood vessel. It was a little price to pay. He had saved her this time.

Root stripped off his belt, using it as a makeshift tourniquet. She then grabbed for a gun from a nearby shelf and pressed it onto his unwilling hand. “She thinks you should take this.” She ignored his fumbling with it and took another one for herself. “We’ve got visitors.”

A series of gunshots marked the end of their conversation. More Samaritan agents were coming. With guns on both hands, Root walked up to the front of the car while bullets hit the side and break through the windows. Harold followed close behind with less confidence, ducking every so often until they took cover on each side of a door. They couldn’t close it because Shaw and Bear hadn’t arrived yet.

Root had succeeded in taken another Samaritan agent down, but there were three more of them crowding the bottom of the stairs. In their current position, they were at disadvantage. It was only a matter of time before more joined in and made way into the car from the other open doors.

In the meantime, Root managed to take out two, but the last man seemed to know when to shoot and when to duck. He was in God Mode—Samaritan had ears in the subway. His bullets zoomed past in scary precision. Some ended up decorating the wall of the car. Some wilder ones bounced against the metal, leaving dent and bright spark on its wake.

Root reloaded her guns, back leaning against the side of the door while Harold eyed her with worry.

“Are you hit?”

“I’m fine, Harry,” she said, breathing a little harder than usual. “I’m just fine.”

He saw liquid red smearing the floor under her. “You’re bleeding.”

She lifted up the hem of her t-shirt and made an annoyed noise on the back of her throat. There was blood on her skin, sourcing back to a cut up on her side. “Shaw can patch us up when she gets here.”

The gunshots had stopped. The lone, heavy footsteps echoed on the dark walls of the station. The one Samaritan agent was closing in; they saw his vague reflection on the cracked window across them. Whatever gun he had before had been discarded in favor of a shotgun. Root prepared herself for an ambush that might very well get her shot, but then there were a couple of dull thuds and everything went quiet. She chanced a peek and saw the man lying unconscious, blood pooling out from his shoulder and knees.

Farther back was Shaw, standing on the bottom of the stairs with her gun drawn and Bear beside her.

“Miss Shaw...”

Harold’s whisper was loud in the silence. Root’s grin faltered. Shaw was staring at them with unseeing eyes, gun still aiming steady at their direction. Root stepped forward, shielding Harold with her body, much to his dismay. Shaw wouldn’t shoot her, but if the standoff continued, Shaw might try to shoot herself again. Root bit her tongue, refraining herself from calling out Shaw’s name in fear of triggering her off.

Sensing the distress of the people around him, Bear nudged Shaw’s hand that was gripping his leash with his nose. It didn’t work. He whined and licked at her knuckles. The warm wetness snapped her out of whatever trance she was in. She casted her eyes away from Root and Harold’s worried gaze, but she didn’t lower her gun. Instead, she turned around just in time to kneecap a couple of incoming Samaritan agents. They sprawled over the last flight of stairs, but more footsteps were coming from above.

“Sameen,” Root called out.

Shaw had let go off Bear’s leash and he came running to Harold, but she hadn’t taken any step closer to the subway car. Root noticed the way she leaned forward and glancing back in between shoots. There was the same determination, just like before she kissed her in the stock exchange's elevator. Shaw’s instinct was urging her to get away from the team and The Machine—to protect them.

“Sameen, please. We have to go.”

It was only when Shaw noticed Root making way to her that she retreated, taking reluctant backward steps into the car without ceasing fire.

“Time this train left the station.”

Harold, who was back to the control panel on the front, furrowed his brows. “What about John?”

“He’s joining us on the next stop,” Root said, ducking before shooting some more. “Close the door, Harry.”

He did just that. All the lights on the panel had turned green; the car was ready to leave. He nodded at Root. She looped an arm around a pole, the other grabbed on Shaw’s as she activated the explosive. The brick wall covering the tunnel collapsed with a loud noise, rubble and dust flying everywhere. The car shook from the explosion. Harold lifted up the power lever to max and took off the break. The next thing they knew, the subway car began crawling out of the station.

The hole wasn’t big enough for it to pass through without having its sides scratched. The car rattled and groaned. Once the ride smoothened—as smooth as an old subway car moved anyway—Shaw unattached herself from Root. Without a word, she went to do a thorough check at the back. Root let her.

Root plopped on the seat with a sigh. Harold gave her an encouraging smile as he came to stand in front of her; she returned it with a forced one. She had told him that Shaw was a little screwy right now and that it was going to take some time, but it was his first time experiencing how bad it was. He went through a simulation once and it already messed up his reality, he could only imagine how hard it must be for Shaw.

Root had patched the wound on her side using the gauze she packed in her bag and was in the middle of ripping off Harold’s sleeve when Shaw joined them again. The subway car was clear, she had made sure of it. For a second, she considered climbing through it too, if not for Bear following close on her heels and The Machine’s _I’m sorry I failed to save you sooner_ written on one of the screens in white. She had clenched her jaws, pushing back to the front of the car. She was trapped. Root was there, so did The Machine, and Harold and Bear and she was a big threat to them, but there was nowhere else to go. Root needed her.

The lost look Root gave her was all she needed to take over her place beside Harold.

It was quite disturbing to see his bare arm. His flushed face indicated the same. For as long as they knew him, it was the most uncovered state they had seen him. It was a nice distraction for Shaw. Root handed her a pair of latex gloves. She had dug out a sleeve from her bag and laid it open on the seat. It held a set of the basic instruments necessary for a small operation, one that Shaw recognized because it was hers.

“I thought you want me to take out your implant.”

It was posed more as a statement than a question. Shaw filled a syringe with clear liquid taken from a vial with _Lidocaine HCl 2%_ printed on its label, regardless of who would receive it first.

“It can wait,” Root said, glancing at Harold with a frown. It was typical of her to put him first. “I’m sure you can fit me in your busy schedule.”

Shaw pursed her lips. She injected the surrounding of the entry wound until he stopped grimacing. Despite the numbness, he looked elsewhere when the tweezers slipped into the gaping hole on his flesh and retrieved the bullet. He was stitched and bandaged in the next minutes.

“Thank you, Sameen.”

She didn’t answer him. She had reveled in the familiarity of providing medical treatment, but it was over all too soon and her hands were covered in his blood.

_Just like when she pressed a gun against his chest and pulled the trigger and the blood seeping on his vest smeared onto her hand when he fell forward to her. And when she stabbed his neck with the snapped-off earpiece of his glasses. And when—_

She peeled off the gloves and tossed it to the side, only to have Root giving her a new pair. It wasn’t a good time for Root to offer a scalpel to Shaw, but she did anyway. Shaw cocked a brow in response.

“I need to take myself out of the equation.” Root nodded her head at the surgical instruments she had moved to the floor. “For now.”

She didn’t wait for Shaw to react to her statement. Harold had conceded his seat when he went to fetch his suit to cover himself, so she could lie over it on her side. She took the whole length of the seats, facing the back of it with head pillowed on her own jacket. His scent lingered on it from when he used it earlier.

Shaw repeated the same procedure without a hitch, everything had ingrained deep in her brain despite her short time doing residency. The first stab of the needle had Root gasping. The prickling pain reduced once cool liquid spread from the tip under her skin. Shaw did it two more times in different spots and by the time she rubbed povidone iodine on the operation site, it was numb enough that Root felt nothing.

It was only when she held the scalpel above the back of Root’s ear that she halted. Her hand trembled. She insisted that it was the car doing. Harold had always used bleach spray to clean up and Bear had caught every rat in the subway, so it was clean and not caked in rat crap but it was still a moving subway car. It was not the ideal operating theater.

“Anytime this year, sweetie.”

Shaw huffed. A nasty bump jolted the car and she cursed under her breath, but pressed the tip of the scalpel on Root’s skin, next to her old scar. From his spot standing behind Shaw, Harold grimaced when Root sucked in a deep breath. Blood leaked from the shallow cut, trickling down the back of her neck until it dripped onto the makeshift pillow. Shaw gripped on the edge of the seat with her free hand until her knuckles turned as white as the glove she was wearing and continued making the incision until the whole body of the receiver-stimulator was uncovered.

When Control performed the stapedectomy on Root, she had removed most of her inner ear as well. Because of that, when the otolaryngologist implanted the receiver-stimulator, he drilled and inserted the wires containing electrodes into the cochlea within short amount of time. It also made it easier for Shaw to drag the electrodes along when she took out the receiver-stimulator using a tweezers.

Even though the local anesthetic had kicked in, Root tensed up through the long seconds. She only relaxed when she felt the foreign emptiness in her ear. She sat up before Shaw could reach for the needle to sew the skin back, feeling a little dizzy from the sudden change of position but it didn’t deter her. The Machine’s last message was clear in her mind.

There was a moment where Shaw stared at her with unreadable expression, as though she tried and failed to make sense of what Root was doing. It was familiar. Root ached to reach out for her, but the implant was dumped on her lap and then Shaw was up on her feet and widened the distance between them again. Root sighed, letting Harold put clean gauze to cover the cut while she held the implant between her thumb and forefinger.

The Machine had given her a low band radio frequency microchip to be installed in the implant, so She could send direct message to her brain in the form of infrasound. Samaritan was willing to cut her head open to get the implant. In the simulation, it would even dig out her grave for it. The last piece of the puzzle to locate her God, but She didn't want her to be a bargaining chip again. She gave the implant one last squeeze before flinging it off. It fell next to her jacket; smudged fingerprint made of blood began to dry out on its surface.

Harold, and to an extent Shaw too, stared at Root like she had lost her mind.

Perhaps she did.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” she said, shrugging her jacket back on and ignoring the discarded implant. “We need to get off this train on the next stop.”

Root only had the time to grab her bag and handed Harold the oxygen tank before she pulled the emergency break. The train came to a stop in the middle of the track. There was no station in sight, only walls standing tall on each side of the car. Shaw pointed it out with an annoyed grunt.

“Relax, sweetie.” Root nudged her head in the direction of the closed door. “A way out will be open in three...two...one.”

There was a loud thud. Then another and another. The wall beyond the door cracked, wider with each heavy thump of the sledgehammer. It stopped when it was wide enough to climb through and the car door hissed open. On the other side stood John, suit discarded, sleeves rolled up and dirt marred his white dress shirt. Shaw rolled her eyes, but she was the first to jump over after Bear. She too was the first to notice the subway car resuming it way after Root and Harold got out.

“The Machine just left?” Shaw asked, confusion coloring her words. “Samaritan will find it.”

“That’s the plan.”

John, who had just received a handkerchief from Harold to wipe the dirt on his cheek, turned to Root. “The Machine will die out there.” He moved forward to the hole on the wall. “We have to—“

“They will merge...” Harold said. Realization washed through his mind. “Samaritan wants to merge.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not as simple as the simulation, Harry.”

Shaw tensed up at the mention of simulation. Root was the first to react. She grasped at the sleeve of her hoodie, slipping her hand into Shaw’s and threading their fingers together. It stopped Shaw from moving away and anchored her in the moment. The contact didn’t last for long, though. After a gentle squeeze, Shaw took her hand back, but she didn’t move away from Root's side.

“Samaritan doesn’t want to merge, The Machine does,” Root added, confirming what Harold had thought since she told him about The Machine’s refusal to hurt Samaritan. Merging was the best option to settle their dispute. “She sure hope Samaritan would change its mind, but either way—“ she gave a pointed look at John “—trust Her.”

The car was long gone by then. There was nothing any of them could do, except for moving on. Only when Root darted to the edge of the small room, where a row of rusty lockers was located, that Harold realized where they were, an old service tunnel for subway maintenance workers to get to the track. From the flickering lamp hanging overhead and the way their shoes left footprints on the dusty floor, the place seemed to be closed and abandoned for quite a while.

The locker’s door gave in after a hard yank and Root took out a duffle bag, tossing it to John. It looked full, but it wasn’t heavy.

“What’s this?” John asked.

“Harold’s exit strategy.” Root pressed a piece of paper onto his hand. There was an address scrawled on it. “You’ll know what to do when you get there. Everything you need is in the bag.”

John nodded, pocketing the paper.

“Well, except for this.” Root opened another locker, took something out, and gave it to Harold. “Insurance,” she said, winking when he became more confused as he held the small hand-drill. “Our covers are still intact for now, John. We have to split.”

Harold made eye contact with Shaw. An understanding transpired between them. “Perhaps Miss Shaw and I should go toge—“

“Not a chance.” Root scoffed. “She knows since the beginning that it can’t be just surviving forever. One day, one of us will screw up and blow our cover.” She first gazed at Harold, guilt prominent on his face, and then at Shaw. “When Shaw’s cover’s blown, the plan wasn’t ready yet. But now it is. She has specific exit route for each of us and that require Shaw to go with me to visit an old friend. You’re stuck with John whether you like it or not, Harry.” When no more protest rose, she nodded. “I’ll see you soon, John. Try not to get yourself killed.”

With that, Root turned on her heel and started heading up the narrow stairs. Shaw lingered a moment longer to pat Bear’s head, he was coming with Harold.

“Be careful, Miss Shaw.”

“Yeah, you too.”

When her eyes met John’s, she forced a smile before catching up with Root. Root was the only one she confided about the simulations, but she had kept the details sparse. She hadn’t told her that just as she had rather killed herself over and over again than to risk her life, she had killed John the most.

He was a big threat according to Samaritan. He was a good soldier. He understood what they were getting into when they started working for The Machine. He wouldn’t hold it against her. While he knew almost nothing about the simulations, it didn’t make it any easier for her. Because she recalled all the 4,089 times she had killed him.

“Give her some time,” Harold said as he offered John’s suit, Bear’s leash looped one of his wrists and his uninjured arm cradling the oxygen tank. He noted his slumped shoulders when Shaw had left them in haste. “Miss Shaw had gone through a lot.”

John quirked a brow and Harold had the grace to appear ashamed. Throughout the week since Shaw was back, he was the one who insisted on keeping her at arm-length. As precaution, his mind had justified. He understood her struggle better now.

John, never one to judge, snatched the tank from him. “We have to go now.”

They began the long journey back above ground. The stairs led them to a hall of a nearby subway station. Root and Shaw were long gone by the time they surfaced. They stuck to the shadow map. The street was packed with people going home from work. The crowd helped hiding their presence, but John remained alert for any sign of Samaritan lapdogs.

They made it down five blocks before they took a stop, hiding under the canopy of an empty store. It was getting too dangerous to continue as they were. John rechecked the address to confirm that it was indeed a long way to their destination. The Machine, wherever the subway car was at the moment, had given them a head start but it wouldn’t last forever.

John looked around, trying to find an alternative way-out. He found one stopping on the intersection’s red light. He took Bear’s leash and dropped his suit over Harold, covering most of his upper body.

“Keep your head down.”

With an arm over his shoulder—he noticed the way he recoiled from the touch on his arm, but he gave him an assuring smile, one that he assumed to mean that Shaw had taken a look at the injury—and guided him toward the patrol car. Harold came into the passenger seat first, scooting up to make space for Bear and John. The cops sitting on the front shouted in alarm when John slammed the door shut.

“Relax, fellas.” John stuck his hand between the front seats, showing off his gold NYPD badge. “Detective Riley, homicide.” He overlooked the incredulous way the cops stared back at him and offered his most charming grin. He nudged his head on the direction of Harold, who peeked out from under his suit, and handed the driver the paper Root had given him earlier. “I need to take this man to this address.”

“What makes you think—“

“He’s an important witness in a recent gangs’ shootout. They’re after him. I need to bring him to safety.”

The cops exchanged a look with each other. John added a soft _please_ on the same time the light turned green. The car behind them honked. The driver sighed, tossing the address to his younger partner whilst muttering about _detectives_ and _just because they’re no longer wearing uniform_ under his breath as he stepped on the gas. Despite the obvious objection and hostile silence, they reached the destination without a hitch.

“Are you sure this is the correct address, _detective_ Riley?” The question was laced with venom.

All four passengers of the patrol car were staring out of the windows. They had pulled on the curb in front of an old building. There was no surveillance camera in sight—they were on a dead zone, perhaps too literally. The younger cop rechecked the address for the third time, confirming that it was indeed the correct street and building number. It was a funeral home.

John smiled, it came out as forced. “New safe house.” He opened the door and waited until Bear and Harold were out before sticking his head back in. “Thanks for your help, officers.” He didn’t wait for a reply before he shut the door.

The funeral home was closed for the day, so he herded Harold and Bear around the building and into its back alley. A black van with the funeral home’s name and logo on its sides was parked behind the building. The dim fluorescent light on top of the backdoor flickered, but he made out a silhouette of a person leaning against it. He slowed down, prompting Harold to do the same and Bear to stand in alert.

“Stay behind me.”

Before John could draw out his gun, the person pushed off from the door. The light from their cigarette acted as a marker of their movement until they stepped into the better-lightened part of the alley. The young man stood unfazed, puffs of smoke pushed out from his parted lips. He ran his eyes over John and then Harold, measuring them. He nodded at himself at last, crushing the cigarette butt under the sole of his sneaker before motioning for them to follow him to the van. They did so with caution.

“I don’t care what kinky shit you’re into,” he said in a rough voice. The smell of cigarette was strong around his person. “But no bangin’ the dead, okay?”

His dark eyes were fierce, demanding for an affirmative answer. Only after John agreed that he opened the backdoor of the van. A dark blue, full-couch cloth-covered casket lay inside. It was empty.

“All expense paid. Feel free to play.” He tossed a set of keys to John. “I’ll pick up the car tomorrow. Casket’s yours.” And with a low mutter of _creepy necrophilia roleplayers_ he walked down the alley, vanishing into the dark night.

Harold was beyond horrified. Mouth agape, but no protest left him. He turned to John, who shrugged his shoulders in return. They knew how it was with Root and The Machine. A buzz of his phone drew John’s attention away from Harold. He opened it to find a new email—a confirmation of an online booking for a one-way ticket made with his credit card. There was an attachment for his extra luggage. His brows furrowed.

Dropping the oxygen tank and the duffle bag into the van, he unzipped it and started digging out the items Root had stuffed inside. A small brown envelope containing his credit card and passport, oxygen mask and its hose, and a thick folder. The first paper in the folder was of his assignment to escort the body of a victim abroad, signed by the captain herself. The second one was from the funeral home, confirming him as the legal guardian to oversee the body transport. He leafed to the next page and the brow hiked up on his forehead.

“I gotta say your machine knows its way with Photoshop,” he said, words tinted with humor. “Your autopsy pictures look convincing, Finch.”

Harold had moved to stand close enough to peer at the folder. His lips set into a thin line. “Indeed, Mister Reese.”

The last item John took out from the duffle bag only further confirmed what they had suspected as Harold’s exit strategy. “That explains the adult diaper.” He shot him a teasing smirk.

Harold could only sigh as he took the package. The only way to disappear was to appear, and in his case, it was to appear to be dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Okaerinasai_ : “welcome home”.
> 
>  _Tadaima_ : “I’m home”.

Root and Shaw’s trip, though shorter than the boys, wasn’t any less dangerous. They stayed on foot, with Root leading the way since she was the one who knew where they were heading. It was at this kind of time that she was reminded that Shaw was a trained, highly skilled operative. She moved with silent steps, blending in the crowd all too well.

Sometimes Root felt her presence behind her, most of the time she didn’t. Without The Machine in her ear she had to fight the urge to look back and check if Shaw was still with her. Instead of doing so, she kept facing forward and placed her trust in her. She wouldn’t fail Shaw like Orpheus failed Eurydice after he got her back from the Underworld—their story was better than a Greek tragedy.

The Machine’s idea must have gone according to plan, because there was no interception from Decima on their way. It was only after they entered the intended apartment building and Shaw put a hand on the small of Root’s back to steer her away from the hall’s surveillance camera that she breathed a little easier. They made their way up to the third floor through the empty emergency stairs; it was easier to make out Shaw’s presence then.

There had been no word exchanged, not even a question asked when Root produced a set of keys to unlock the last apartment down the hall. She walked in with a disturbing sense of familiarity, much to Shaw’s wonder. Still, she followed her while taking a quick note of their surroundings. No photos on the walls, spare decorations, dull color scheme—she wouldn’t be surprised if it was Root’s place. Yet as she entered the room after Root, she stopped short on her track.

There was a woman curled on the bed, her back facing them and the sheets barely covering her bare body. Shaw narrowed her eyes at Root, who placed a finger over her own lips, gesturing her to keep quiet. She mouthed a _trust me_ before she made her way to sit on the edge of the bed. Without waking the woman up, she brushed her long dark hair away with familiar gentleness—only to stab her neck with a needle and pump sedative into her system. Shaw rolled her eyes. _That_ was familiar too.

The en-suite bathroom door opened just as Root tossed the empty syringe into the trashcan next to the nightstand. It had landed on top of a used condom and a couple of crumpled tissues. Root’s displeasure was apparent when she faced the man standing still on the open doorway. His blonde hair was wet, a towel wrapped around his waist, and he looked terrified.

“Larry,” Root said, the name laced with disappointment. “What did I tell you about sleeping with coworker?”

Larry’s frightened eyes went from Root to Shaw and stuck back on Root again. “Wh-what do you want?” He then caught the sight of his lover on the bed, who remained undisturbed despite the strangers in the room. “What did you do to her? Stay away from her!” He charged forward, only to have Shaw stood in his way.

“Relax, Larry. I’m not going to stuff her in the trunk.” Root’s grin turned teasing. “She’s just catching up some sleep after all the spanking she did tonight.”

Larry flinched back as Root came to stand beside Shaw. He felt exposed and embarrassed, face turning as red as his bottom. Shaw snickered and Root couldn’t help but smile along. She had missed her a lot during the months they were apart, even more when she was being playful like now.

“My friend here—“ Root placed a hand on Shaw’s upper arm, squeezing once before letting go “—is going to be your copilot for the next flight.”

“My copilot?” He stared down at Shaw, just now realizing that she had many semblances to his unconscious copilot-turned-lover. They were the same height, hair, and eye color. It didn’t stop him from measuring her. “Do you even know how to fly a plane?”

Shaw wasn’t disturbed in the slightest at his distrust. She was just waiting for something to mess up and then she would know it was time for her to end this simulation. “I completed Primary Flight Training when I was in the Marines.” Root had read her file and of course The Machine knew about it too. She took no offense at the questioning look she received from Larry, she was used to that. “Didn’t get selected for Advance Training. Turn out I’m better at shooting people than shooting down aircraft.”

Larry cringed at Shaw’s nonchalant attitude. “But it’s a civilian plane,” he said. It was, after all, his and hundreds other lives on the line should the plane crash.

“The fly-by-wire system should make everything easier.”

“She knows her toys,” Root interjected this time. While she enjoyed hearing Shaw talk, they didn’t have the time for chitchat. They had a plane to catch. Looking at Larry, she asked, “Now, you don’t happen to know where your friend keeps her uniform and papers, do you?”

 

* * *

 

It went all too smooth on John’s end and he couldn’t help but expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment. He had helped Harold settling in as comfortable as possible before nailing the coffin and left the funeral home with its van. Bear had to go in the cargo as well since he was quite big to stay with him in the cabin. He found that Samaritan hadn’t sniffed him out since his cover identity was still intact when he checked in. His special cargos were loaded as he waited for the flight. No hitch, just typical hiccups.

While John wondered about Root and Shaw’s whereabouts on his way to his assigned seat, he considered this exit strategy wasn’t so bad so far. That was until he sat on the middle row, couch section, between an elderly man and a young boy with his mother. He grimaced. It was all a mere homicide detective could afford while traveling on duty and The Machine wasn’t around to upgrade him to first class again. So he tucked his legs and prepared for eleven hours of flight. At least he wasn’t stuck in a casket.

Once the plane was safe on the sky and the seatbelt signal was turned off, John excused himself. The older man gave him a disapproving huff when he had to pass his seat to get out. He returned it with an innocent smile before making his way to the lavatory. He used the time to do a sweep of his surroundings, looking for possible threat. He spotted the Air Marshall, but other than her, the passengers were busy on their own. No one paid attention to him, no one seemed to be on Decima’s payroll. Relieving as it was, he didn’t spot Root or Shaw either, though.

When he came back to his seat, he found out that the threat was closer than he had thought. With the seatbelt out of the way, the kid sitting next to him was free to climb over the seats. It started with a kick on his knee accompanied with wide, innocent eyes, and ended with his shoulder being used as leverage and his thigh being stepped on. He forced a smile as he held the boy up and put him back on his seat, only to repeat the same process not two minutes later. The boy’s mother glanced once from her seat on the other end and to John’s annoyance, continued doing whatever she was doing on her phone.

John would never hurt innocent people, but some were just testing his limit. He was tempted to do the same as the kid he met on his flight to Rome and asked the flight attendant for some alcohol. He would have to sneak it in on his own this time. As if summoned by his ill intention, the telltale noise of the cart came to a stop beside their row. He plastered on his best smile, but the face that greeted him made him falter.

“May I offer you anything to drink, sir?”

Standing beside the cart was Root. She was dressed in the blue stewardess uniform. The airline’s trademark scarf wrapped around her neck, diverting the attention away from the gauze behind her right ear. She winked at him.

“Do you have anything stronger?” He gave a subtle tilt of his head to the mother-son duo next to him. “Being on plane always makes me anxious.”

Root caught the message. “I understand,” she said, smiling with mischief.

She proceeded to pour whiskey for John and then added the same amount when the boy asked for juice. The older man was too distracted by Root’s skirt and exposed legs to know any better. John elbowed him on accident, ending his leering. Root gave John a thankful nod as she resumed the snail-paced progress up the aisle. It took just as long as she remembered to get to the end because everyone seemed to think they could give a specific order on how they take their coffee and tea.

By the time she reached the front end of economy class, her heels were killing her. Changing her cart to a smaller tray, she continued through the first class, ignoring the confused stares from that section’s attendants. The chief of flight could scold her later. When she got to the end of the narrow way leading to the cockpit, she knocked on the door. It unlocked and a muffled voice through the intercom told her to enter.

“I brought coffee,” she said, setting the tray down. “Can I get you anything else, captains?”

On the left seat, Larry tensed up as Root got closer. “No,” he said without looking back.

“Well, there’s no need to be rude.”

Larry gulped. “I mean, no, thank you.”

Root grinned in approval, turning her attention to the right. Her hand came to rest on Shaw’s shoulder. “The big lug is here,” she said, smoothening the sleeve of the crisp white pilot uniform Shaw was wearing. It felt foreign, but it fit her all too well. “His special baggage is safe too.” She had snuck into the cargo to check on Harold. He had knocked back twice when she called him _Count Dracula_.

“And Bear?”

“He’s guarding the cargo.”

Shaw nodded, not taking her eyes off the dark sky. “You wanna tell me what’s so important in Buenos Aires?”

“Another plane.”

 

* * *

 

Out of all the places on Earth, they ended up in Antarctic. Harold had listed off the advantages, like the bad weather and frequent storms messing with satellite read. _De facto condominium_ , Root added. And the Antarctic Treaty prohibits military activity, as John said. Shaw didn’t care enough to contribute. She already felt like a bloated penguin with multiple layers of clothing wrapped around herself, clinging on Root as they rode the snowmobile.

They stopped near a plain looking outlook on a rocky hill, right in the middle of the other bases. Bear dashed ahead. He had a bright jacket and small boots on each of his feet, courtesy to Root. John lagged behind to help Harold climb the stairs carved out from the rocks. The building was unassuming. Nothing remarkable from the outside aside from a couple of working wind turbines next to it and the familiar marking with the letter ‘T’ on the front door.

The inside was messy and lived-in. Root didn’t bat an eye at the couple of unmade single beds occupying one side of the room or at the half-finished cup of coffee left frozen in the sink. She went to the wardrobe first. It stood taller than herself. Despite the shoes lining the bottom, the clothes was folded and placed in order. She pushed the hanged outerwear to one side, uncovering what appeared to be a simple safe built into the back of the closet. She put in the code to unlock it and the whole backside of the closet slid open, revealing stairs leading down.

“Ready to meet God?”

Shaw deadpanned. “I’m not going back into the closet.”

“You were never in the closet, sweetie.” Root had a knowing grin that Shaw rolled her eyes at. “It’s the only way to Narnia.”

“More like a way to the Underworld to me,” John said.

Root shrugged with an easy grin before she turned and went down first. Harold gazed at John and Shaw, who in return gestured at him to go ahead first with Bear. John brought up the rear. He made sure to close the closet door and rearrange the hanged clothes first before he stepped down. The secret door slid shut on its own after he passed through. He could only make out the tip of Shaw’s ponytail and flashes of Bear’s jacket under the dim yellow lights. The way his shoulders squeezed in the narrow path was triggering his claustrophobia, but lucky for him it wasn’t a long one.

Bright light flooding through once Root opened the door at the bottom. Both Shaw and John reached for their guns when all of a sudden Root was pulled through. They urged Harold forward, but the scene that greeted them wasn’t one they had expected. John tucked his gun back into his parka as he came to stand beside a relaxed Shaw, exchanging sheepish look for their overreaction.

It was Daizo, the one who had grabbed Root into a hug. “ _Okaerinasai!_ ”

After overcoming her own surprise, Root squeezed him back as she smiled over his shoulder to Daniel. “ _Tadaima_.”

Daniel welcomed Harold first, saying something about keeping his promise on not sending a postcard. He then turned to Root after she untangled herself from Daizo. He was less invasive, but he held her arm as though he was making sure she was really there with them. The Machine had shown them the simulation, she was aware of it, and that was why she hadn’t stepped away even though they were crowding her personal space. Being part of the team was, after all, the first time she felt like she belonged.

“Where’s the other musketeer?”

“Didn’t know you care, Shaw.” Root teased with the callback of their conversation years ago. “Jason works at Žemitija National Park, for now. He’ll join us once it’s done.” She didn’t elaborate further despite the questioning stares she was given.

“What is this place, Miss Groves?”

“For the moment, it’s home.”

Root motioned at their surroundings. John and Shaw were the first to note that the bunker had an additional metal structure, copper mesh shielded over the steel pillars and sheets layering over the concrete walls. It was the combination of the underground structure of the subway with the interior of the safe house. The glaring difference was the fact that there was no sight of servers or computers anywhere. Just one big screen mounted on the wall.

“For us?” Harold asked again.

“And Her.”

Before Harold could ask for more explanation, John chimed in, “It’s a big Faraday cage.” Shaw nodded along. “To keep The Machine contained?”

“To keep Samaritan out.” There was that mischievous smirk and that spark of madness in Root’s eyes that Shaw couldn’t help but stare a little longer. Root softened when she noticed it. “When Samaritan went online, The Machine gave the boys—“ she glanced at Daizo and Daniel, who was playing with Bear on the couch “—new cover identities as researchers here, sponsored by Thornhill. Thanks to our old friend Maria, who is now running Hydral Corps, we got discount on the generators backing up this place.”

Root steered them to the sit on the dining table. Harold realized that it was the exact copy of the one in the safe house, while Shaw had different, repeating memories of what had happened on said table during the simulations Samaritan had put her through. Daizo came around with drinks, snapping her out of her daze. She washed the haunting experience away with the shot of vodka, glad that the boy had left the whole bottle for her and John to enjoy.

“Most of the electricity sourced from renewable source, the solar panels on the roof and the wind turbine above ground,” Root said, passing Harold his tea and muttering a soft _domo_ at Daizo. The sencha green tea and ice cream were among the first items to be stocked up in the bunker, waiting for his arrival. “The rest siphoned from the bases around. Since every base is independent—“

“No one is suspecting their friendly neighboring outlook is stealing their power,” John said. He motioned his head toward the other set of the stairs. Back in the safe house, it was supposed to lead to the balcony. “The Machine?”

“She’s here.”

Root smiled at the screen, placed above the fireplace and right on the head of the table. It was dark, but it wasn’t off. The lone word _Welcome_ filled it before it turned dark again. Root already missed having Her voice in her ear, but alas she had to wait for the plan to succeed before getting fitted with a new cochlear implant and what she expected to be the result of Her metamorphosis after She consumed Samaritan.

“The servers are underground, where it’s colder. No cooling system, no excessive power consumption.”

Shaw scoffed. “My ass is freezing.” By then, she had the vodka bottle for herself because John didn’t seem to need it much. “Where the hell did The Machine get the idea? Superman?”

“Living underground in the city like Batman didn’t work well,” Root said.

Harold, who had processed through the new information in silence, spoke out with a concern of his own, “What happened with the rest of The Machine?” He was almost scared to ask, but he needed to know. He understood that their hiding was necessary, but he didn’t see much of a future while being contained underground in Antarctic for the rest of their lives.

“Remember the Trojan Horse you put in Beth’s laptop?”

Harold had a grim look on his face. Root was willing to kill her just to save him, while he was willing to die if it gave them a chance to defeat Samaritan. He couldn’t forget it even if he wanted to.

“Cheer up, Harry. It was a brilliant plan, it still is.”

It took only a beat for him to realize what Root had meant. “The Machine _is_ the Trojan Horse?”

“Samaritan is everywhere already, infecting every device as malware baked into the latest firmware. It will want to engage Her directly, and when it does, She will overpower it to merge with the help of the polymorphic virus embedded into Her core,” Root said with no slightest doubt. “If you can’t fight it, join it.”

“The Ice-9 virus?”

“You of all people should know that nothing is so simple. Even if Ice-9 takes down the internet and She defeats Samaritan and Greer dies, Decima is still operating. Another Greer will come around and find a way to resurrect their God. But She believes there’s a lesson in the simulation, about the man who built God and the hubris left behind.”

Harold bowed his head. Breaking into Mister Barnett’s house to steal his propagation module, borrowing his vehicles, impersonating NATO’s Defense Minister of Intelligence, and breaking into Fort Meade to upload Ice-9. Those were what She had predicted him to do, if Root were to die protecting him, and She wasn’t wrong. He would be reckless, blinded by fury, and lashed out in anger to bury the guilt he felt because another good friend had died because of him. He wouldn’t consider the ramification of what he was about to do nor the massive collateral damage from the global outage.

However, not even Root’s fervor could convince him, not that it had managed to do so before. “How can you be so sure The Machine will win?” he asked, skeptical due to the unfavorable results of their little Petri dish experiment.

“Like I said, Harry, every system has a flaw. Samaritan’s is for not having you.” Root turned her gaze from Harold to the screen. “And if you don’t trust me, you can ask Her yourself.”

Shaw and John followed her line of sight, but Harold took a moment to do so. He wasn’t used to talk with The Machine that way. It usually happened under a less than fortunate circumstance. It was jarring, yet comforting to see the words on the screen and not listening to Root as The Machine’s voice.

_It is my fight to face._

“You’ve already fought Samaritan in the simulations,” Harold said. The truth was bitter, but it mattered more than anything else. They were still alive for now, but he didn’t think they could just survive forever and let Samaritan control the world as it pleased. “You’ve never won.”

 _This time, I don’t have the option of losing_. A beat, the words blinked out and replaced by new ones. _Trust me._

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my IT consultant, [Shawshanksthings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shawshanksthings/pseuds/Shawshanksthings), for answering my questions and explaining everything from the technical angle.


End file.
